A boy shoulders his way
through the thighs of men
(musk of fenugreek)
and shucks off his book bag.
Because he is a boy,
he rides the sluggish bus
with purpose, knuckles tight
around the tall steel stanchion.
Out the window, a patch
of magenta screeches by,
tulips loud as the color
of fresh-dyed chicks.
Far west,
they are wrapping children in Mylar
and putting them to sleep
where they used to house ammo.
Their mothers shout, te amo.
